


Memories and music

by bitsandbobsandstuff



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Has Nightmares, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, F/M, Hydra are a pile of dicks, Piano Sex, Russian music is aggressive, Smut, Wizard of Oz References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2019-02-08 00:46:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12853095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitsandbobsandstuff/pseuds/bitsandbobsandstuff
Summary: “Even when they’d wipe away everything else, I could still sit down with no practice and just – play.” His fingers pick out a quick succession of familiar chords, the song sitting vaguely on the cusp of memory. His voice cracks when he speaks again.“I’ve – I’ve been reading, sometimes people with Alzheimer’s can remember how to play music, even years after their memories are gone. Something about muscle memory, I guess.” Bucky looks back up at you, and there’s a piercing stab in your heart at the look on his face.Where the Winter Soldier plays the piano, and it makes your heart break.





	Memories and music

Eyes blink slowly open in the dark, hazy dreams brimming with wordless melodies, pulling you to the surface. When you reach for the warmth of his presence, your fingers find only empty air.

Rising from the bed, you tug the bedsheet loose and wrap it around your naked body, tucking the knot between your breasts. Feet step lightly over cold wood to open the bedroom door, toes curling in when the swirl of cool air sweeps into the room.

Pausing in the doorframe, eyes drifting shut, you listen intently. A suffocating silence folds around you, thick and heavy, muffling everything but the steady thumping beat of your heart.

 _There._ The faintest hint of sound.

Tilting your heard, your ears catch the notes again, and in a moment your feet are carrying you soundlessly through the winding corridors. The sound grows clearer, exquisite strains of a complex piano melody ebbing and flowing through the darkness, drawing you to a heavy door in the corner of the tower.

There is only a gentle push and the door is swinging open. The scene you discover closes your throat, blurs your senses. Shatters your heart.

There are no lights. The room is bathed in an eerie blue glow, the brilliant reflection of bright moonlight off new fallen snow. It cascades through floor to ceiling windows, a wall made entirely of glass so perfectly clear, it offers the illusion of invisibility, of opening directly into the icy night. Your gaze is drawn to the elegant grand piano, glossy black lacquer shining under the glow, throwing deep shadows across the floor.

The scene is breathtaking, this is true.

But it pales in comparison to the beauty of the man who sits before the ivory keys.

Bucky is seated on a bench in front of the keyboard, his body curled over the stripes of black and white. Every vertebrae in his spine is visible, standing in sharp relief as he bends forward. He wears only dark blue sweatpants, and you stand utterly mesmerised as the heavy muscles of his back flex and release, his hands running the entire length of the piano, rolling through the complicated movements of the piece as though it’s merely a simple children’s song.

Bare footsteps are muted under the blanket of music as you tiptoe toward him. It seems a tragedy to interrupt the music, but his warm skin is a draw you’ve never been able to resist. Tracing your fingers lightly down his back, they leave a thin prickle of goosebumps in their wake.

Still he keeps playing, never acknowledging your presence, never breaking his rhythm. The music spills effortlessly from his fingers, faster and faster. He turns slightly and you see his sharp profile. You realise.

Eyes shut tight, jaw clenched, chest heaving.

He’s locked in a nightmare.

Wherever he is right now, it is far, far away from here. The hair on the back of your neck raises at the expression of sheer, excruciating pain etched into his features. Swallowing hard, you lean slowly forward and press your lips to his shoulder, rub your palms soothingly up his back.

“Come back, Bucky.” Murmured words, quiet under the frantic rhythm of the music. His fingers falter briefly, but he recovers, and plays faster still.

“Bucky, _come back to me_.” The words are louder now, firm and forceful, and this time they break through the tangled dreams. His skin ripples at the realisation of touch, a wild shudder shaking his body, and he sucks in a loud gasp. Eyes fly open, hands jerk immediately from the keys as though the ivory is acid to touch.

The silence falls down around you both, his harsh breathes the only sound echoing through the cavernous room.

“Are you okay?” You whisper the question, lips still brushing his skin. His muscles are rigid and unmoving beneath you, and long minutes pass before his shoulders finally relax and he slumps.

“ _I’m not okay_ ,” the words are spoken so quietly, you’re not sure they were real.

He clears his throat, and speaks again, his voice still hoarse, still heavy with sleep. “Will you sit with me?” He shifts slightly, offering space next to him on the wide, heavy bench, and you gather the bedsheet closer and sit carefully next to him. Questions are tumbling in your head, and you try to collect them into a single coherent thought that won’t break him.

“I didn’t know you could play. That was beautiful.”

Bucky turns to look at you, a small smile twisting his lips, but never quite reaching his eyes. They remain impassive and guarded, unwilling to accept the compliment. He is silent for so long, you wonder if he understood the words.

But he did, and now he decides to tell you a story.

“Before the war, my Ma taught me. She played in our church, and every week I went along and listened to her practice. When she’d finish, I’d sit next to her and she’d teach me what to do. What the notes were, how to read the music. For some reason, it just came so easy for me.”

He smiles a genuine smile as he reminisces, profound relief at his ability to remember. But then it falls away, and he spits out the next words, sharp and furious, sour syllables on his tongue.

“They – knew, somehow. Always seemed to know these small things about me, ones I never expected were important. They must’ve dug real fuckin’ deep, you know? Pulled out every single thing they could use. Hell, what good is a body if you can’t use every last pound of flesh?”

His right-hand brushes over the keys, pausing to select a note here and there, letting the discordant sounds ring through the still air.

“Even when they’d wipe away everything else, I could still sit down with no practice and just – play.” His fingers pick out a quick succession of familiar chords, the song sitting vaguely on the cusp of memory. His voice cracks when he speaks again.

“I’ve – I’ve been reading, sometimes people with Alzheimer’s can remember how to play music, even years after their memories are gone. Something about muscle memory, I guess.” Bucky looks back up at you, and there’s a piercing stab in your heart at the look on his face.

“It was a useful skill. ‘ _Clean him up, get him in a suit, we want him at that event. Sit him down, he’s playing the whole night_. _Mission report when it’s over._ ’ Always playing, always listening. Waiting for whispered secrets, drunken confessions. Listen and report. Sometimes put a bullet in some lucky bastard’s brain before disappearing.”

Hands are folded loosely in his lap now, fingers unconsciously twitching. He looks down, picks at a thread on the black glove covering his left hand. “Always had to wear gloves. See, people didn’t like that click of metal on the keys. It was too distracting, too memorable. Harder for me to fade into the crowd.”

He pauses here, unsure if he should continue, but you give his leg a comforting squeeze and move closer, until you’re pressed tight against him. Taking a shaky breath, he continues.

“Sometimes though, I just – played for them. They thought it was funny. ‘ _Watch this, boys! Whatever you want him to do, just say the words, he’s all ours, he’ll do anything!_ ’ During their parties, I would – I had to play for hours. It’s strange to complain about it, given every other shitty thing they forced me to do. I know that.” Bucky shrugs and rubs his eyes, an involuntary attempt to scrub away the images of jeering faces, of unwelcome hands, of bloody red fingerprints on white ivory keys.

“But this, _this_ skill was something that was _mine_. It was me _before the war_. It’s the me I thought I’d get to be the rest of my life. It was me before I picked up a gun, before I used a knife. Before I killed someone. Before I became – whatever it is I am now, I guess. It hurt different. It was something that was good and special and _me_ , and even that, they took and twisted it into something else.”

There are silent tears slipping unnoticed down his cheeks at this last admission. They catch in the dark scruff covering his face, dripping slowly onto his hands. His memories are suffocating, heartbreak made material, substantial and quantifiable, and you ache to the very marrow of your bones as you watch the emotions wreak havoc across his face.

The desire to fix this, to take it all away, is overwhelming on every level. Reaching for him, cupping his face gently, you turn his face toward you to dry the wet streaks of his tears with your thumbs. When he closes his eyes at the touch, you lean forward and place a gentle kiss on each damp eyelid, tasting the salty flavour of his tears. Picking up his left hand, you tug the glove from his fingers, drop it to the floor and turn his wrist, planting a warm kiss in the centre of his cold metal palm.

Bucky’s breath hitches at the gesture, and when he opens his eyes to find you watching him so intently, he snaps, dragging you roughly into his lap, opening your legs to straddle him. Sliding your hands behind his neck, he bows his forehead to rest against your chest with a contented sigh, and you let your fingers tangle into his hair, cradling him against you. Strong arms wind around your body, clinging desperately, searching hungrily for skin on skin contact. Exhaling a deep breath, he looks up through long black lashes, teardrops still trembling precariously on the tips.

The pure misery in his blue eyes nearly stops your heart. _Anything_. You would do anything to take it away.

When he hesitatingly begins to pull on the bedsheet, his eyes never leave yours, and you give him a small smile of encouragement. He responds with the ghost of a smile, and pulls harder, until the knot between your breasts breaks open, the cloth sliding down your body, pooling around your hips.

Lightly chapped lips search for the fluttering pulse in your throat, and when you tilt your head back, he trails hot, open-mouthed kisses up and down the smooth skin, stopping to suck gently at the sweet juncture at the base of your neck. There’s a faint sound, a low hum vibrating in his chest, as he glides his tongue along your collarbone, drinking in the flavour of your skin. His hands grip your ribcage, and there is the rough feel of callouses on one side, complemented by the smooth slide of metal on the other, when he runs them up your body to cup your breasts, thumbs flicking over your nipples. He savours your quiet moan at his touch, pausing to let his fingers rub small circles over the sensitive peaks, until he feels you begin to roll your body against him.

When his mouth finds the hollow space between your breasts, he rubs his lips back and forth against your skin, his fingers still pinching your nipples. Lazy, smooth, slow. Pressing a gentle kiss above your heart, he pulls back slightly, slides his hands to clutch your waist, and with an effortless movement, lifts your body, sitting you carefully on the piano in front of him. His face shows deep concentration as he continues unwrapping the sheet around your waist, until you’re naked before him. He holds your gaze for a moment, his fingers gently massaging the soft skin of your calves, before his eyes drift longingly down your body.

Holding your breath, you let him drink his fill, his eyes sweeping over every inch, memorising every last detail.

“I’m here with you – right?” You feel a twist in your stomach at the sound of his low, gravelly voice. He lifts his eyes back to yours.

“You’re here with me Bucky.” Reassurance falls easily from your lips, a slight tremor at the feel of his name in your mouth.

Nodding slightly, he shifts himself forward, hooking your legs over his shoulders, reaching to twine your fingers with his. There’s a muted tinkling sound, high and low notes breaking in the room, when your hands come down together against the keys, and the music fades seamlessly into the moan he draws from you when he licks up your folds, pressing his tongue to your clit.

 _“Beautiful music.”_ He whispers.

His tongue drags back and forth, licking slow strips, dancing over your clit again and again, lips pausing now and then to give the tiny bud a harsh suck. He groans into you at the sweet taste, the deep timbre of his voice sending sparks of electricity through your veins. You feel your toes begin to curl on the keyboard, as you get closer and closer to the edge.

“I’m close Bucky, please, I’m so close,” it is a helpless plea you give him, you’re so close, _nearly there_ , when he raises his head and stops. Leaning back, dropping lazy kisses on the smooth skin of your thigh, he watches you through heavily hooded eyes, drinking in the image of you trembling above him, the rapid rise and fall of your breasts. When he hears your quiet whine of frustration, he sits back on the bench, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

He startles you when he rises swiftly, caged between your legs, and smashes his lips to yours, tongue sliding urgently into your mouth, licking against your teeth. He _growls_ when you return the pressure, and then he pushes you down, back flat against the piano lid. His fingers are everywhere, pushing into you, massaging your breasts, slipping between your lips. He can’t get enough, can’t stop touching, searching out the intricacies of your body, feeling your smooth skin beneath him.

Absolute, incontrovertible proof that he is _here, right now, with you_.

Making quick work of his sweatpants, he jerks them down, kicks them away, and drags you from the piano in one fluid motion. Settling back on the bench, cuddling you into his lap, he helps you fold your knees on either side of his hips.

Every inch of his body is burning hot, fire branding your skin. Gripping his shoulders tightly, you rest your forehead to his, grinding your hips down hard with a groan, begging him to ease the ache between your legs, to finish what he started. His cock feels so thick and hard and velvety smooth, when he cants his hips up, covering himself in the slickness he finds.

Tangling his tongue with yours, he sweeps away every last thought. Curving cool metal fingers beneath your ass, he lifts you gently up, his other hand dropping to grip his cock tight and angle himself just right. With whimper of pleasure, you sink down on him, breath coming in harsh rushes at the feel of him finally inside.

He goes completely still, lets himself adjust. His forehead still rests against yours, his eyes wide open and nearly consumed by the black pupils. He moves his hands to rest on your hips, and he waits.

This is not unusual, he does this, sometimes. Finds himself buried inside you, unwilling to do more than simply be there, in the moment. The heavy feel of him in you lights the fuse on every single nerve ending, scorching you from the inside out.

Nuzzling his nose to yours, he gathers his composure, takes a deep breath. He begins to rock you back and forth, pushing and pulling your body against his, a steady grind against your clit with every roll of your hips and it makes your blood sing.

It is not rough, not hard, not wild and a little bit dirty, the words you normally conjure to describe the nights you spend wrapped up in each other. Somehow, this feels so completely and utterly _different_ , the breathy moans and delicate gasps and the rustle of skin, all fresh chords of pleasure, a musical score that has danced on the periphery of consciousness, but never made its way forward.

Bucky reaches up and swipes a thumb over your lips, tugging on it, opening your lips to hear the music he craves. When you close your eyes, he leans forward and bites your bottom lip with a sharp nip, pleading for attention.

“Keep your eyes open, okay? Stay here with me.”

There’s a broken note in his voice, and the sound cracks your heart. Humming your agreement, you give him a small nod, focusing intently on the blue eyes burning fiercely in front of you. He stares intensely, refusing to break the connection, even as his breath comes faster. He rocks your body harder against him, and your hips follow him, moving you faster, pulling him deeper inside you. He’s pushed you so close to the edge again, and when he reaches his hand between you to brush your clit, he presses his lips on yours one last time, and you feel your body crash, a low cry crawling up your throat.

It is only seconds later when Bucky follows, his body tensing up and he groans against your mouth when he comes, shaking so hard he can do nothing more than hold on.

The matching sounds of your slowing breaths are the only sound in the room, the final notes of a vibrant piece reaching its conclusion. He buries his face against your neck, lips tasting the fine sheen of sweat coating your skin, and you hear him whisper.

“ _I love you_. We’re the only music I ever want to play.”

 

\--------

 

“Bucky, if you could only have one song to play, what would you choose?” You sit side by side again on the heavy bench, leaning an overheated cheek against a cool metal shoulder, your arm wrapped securely around his waist. Bucky is pressing keys at random, giving life to a nameless tune that’s swirling in his head.

His brow is furrowed as he thinks. He loves the question. What would _he choose_.

He huffs a quiet laugh.

“Anything at all?” His hands begin to move again, less controlled and precise, but with an intimate quality that was lacking before. The music flows from his fingertips, his muscles finally relaxing, and you close your eyes when his deep voice picks up the words to accompany the song.

_“Somewhere over the rainbow, skies are blue…”_

Memories and music, sometimes they are so interchangeable.

With absolute certainty, you embrace this thought. No memory in your life, past or present, will ever compare to the beauty of hearing Bucky play ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow,’ under the blue glow of this cold room. Closing your eyes, you hear the subtle clicks from his metal fingers lend a curious sound to the music, marking the song so wonderfully unforgettable, so _unequivocally Bucky_.

The music builds, flooding the room, bleeding into every corner of your heart, washing away the flood of bitter memories, leaving behind a clean page. New beginnings, new songs you can write together.

Bucky holds the last chord, smiling to himself at the lingering sound, until it slowly fades away.


End file.
